


Locked Doors

by whimsicalfern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Edgeplay, F/M, Hair-pulling, Minor Character Death, Slight Choking, Spanking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalfern/pseuds/whimsicalfern
Summary: [Post-S9]Grieving the death of your friend Kevin Tran, you get back on the hunting grind and encounter none other than the King of Hell himself in Missouri. After knocking back a few drinks, you both head to his domain and contemplate doing unspeakable things to each other behind locked doors.
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	1. Part 1

_Dreamer, you will waste your time_

_Do you ever wonder why_

_We go on and on and on?_

_Love is gone and gone and gone—_

Switching off the radio, you spent the rest of your solo drive to Missouri in unsettling silence. On any other night, you wouldn’t have minded whatever song that old station decided to play, but at the moment, the lyrics were hitting a little too close to home. It was possible that they, in fact, didn’t, that the lingering grief you felt after Kevin’s death would typically connect just about any random object or occurrence to him. Always back to him. Still, you didn’t want to take that chance.

Dean and Sam had to force you out of your slump by assigning you a random mission not far from the bunker’s location. A shifter had been causing his own brand of havoc at a small town in Missouri, and your job was to hunt the fucker down with the help of an ally. Who this _ally_ was, they couldn’t tell you, only that you’d meet him en route to the shifter’s usual area of activity.

When you’d arrived at the rendezvous point, which was nothing more than a bar by the highway, you stepped out of the car before zipping up your jacket all the way to your neck. The evening air felt chilly and unwelcome; already, you felt like something sinister was watching you from the fray, slinking around the area to catch you unprepared.

You took slow, deliberate steps to the entrance of the bar, looking around the near-empty parking lot with caution. The hilt of your knife peeked only slightly from the deep pocket of your jacket.

That was when you caught a whiff of something that alerted you.

Sulfur.

And was that…a trace of Hugo Boss, too?

You pulled out the blade and turned swiftly around to press it against your stalker’s throat.

Before you could even nick the guy’s skin, he’d expertly caught your wrist mid-arc and kept it there, glancing down at you with a mischievous grin.

Oh. Great.

“Good to see you again, darling.”

He squeezed your wrist hard, not enough to damage it but enough to make you drop the knife and let out a short cry of pain. You automatically pulled your arm out of his grasp and cradled it to your chest, immediately glaring daggers at the King of Hell.

“Crowley.”

He nodded casually at the scathing address.

“(y/n). Shall we?”

With a hand at the small of your back, he escorted you into the bar.

* * *

“I don’t care if I have to hunt this thing down on my own and lose an arm in the process. I am _not_ going to work with you on this.”

You were fuming on that bar stool, refusing to take a sip of the gin and tonic Crowley had bought for you. Rather than being taken aback by your refusal to cooperate, he simply shrugged and drank his scotch like it was any other Thursday evening. This only infuriated you even more.

“Well, I’m afraid you no longer have any choice in the matter,” he said.

You scoffed. “Because Dean said so?”

“No. Because the job’s already done.”

You had to blink a couple more times to confirm that Crowley wasn’t kidding.

“Excuse me?”

“I got rid of that shifter for you. Nasty little bugger, too. Can you imagine how difficult it is to keep tabs on a creature that adamantly refuses to possess a permanent face?”

He was doing it again, making it seem like everything was normal, in which case _everything_ meant finding and offing a shifter when it was supposed to be your job in the first place. This time, though, you were more confused than irritated. You would have thanked him for getting the job done if the whole thing didn’t seem suspicious to you.

“This is just a ploy, right? If it is, don’t think I owe you for helping me,” you said, finally taking the drink in front of you.

Crowley chuckled. “Please. I may be a businessman but I know the difference between business and a little courtesy.”

You stopped mid-sip and stole a glance at Crowley over the rim of your glass. If what he said was true, then what were you still doing in that bar?

Putting down your gin and tonic, you considered the demon with interest. “I still don’t get it. Why go through all that trouble and still meet me here?”

Crowley’s expression morphed from aloof to devious faster than you could comprehend. “Come now, pet. There’s no need for pretense here. Can’t an old demon just sit back and have a drink with a stunning piece of work such as yourself?”

At that moment, you couldn’t tell whether the heat rising to your face came from the alcohol or that unexpected compliment.

Truth be told, the reason for your annoyance at Crowley’s sudden appearance in that parking lot earlier wasn’t because you abhorred the guy but because of the exact opposite. You _liked_ him. He was charming and illegally handsome, with a voice that would have you tremble down to your very fingertips every time you heard it. Over time, it had gotten harder and harder to mask these feelings in front of him, and this time, with you feeling emotionally trashed after the death of a good friend, was definitely no easier than before.

You couldn’t think of a good comeback to that, so under the demon’s interested scrutiny, you let out a nervous, pathetic laugh before diving back into your drink.

_I’m so fucked._

“Not that I don’t need this drink,” you started, deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to play along with this banter, “but if you think you’ll get me drunk tonight, you’ve got another thing coming. I rarely get smashed.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows apprehensively. “Do I look like someone with ulterior motives?”

“You’re a demon,” you replied in a deadpan manner. “That…usually comes with the job description, doesn’t it?”

“Touché. I was never one for promises, anyway.” He held his drink in one hand, casually swirling the contents of his glass. “So how about it, then? Shall we test this tolerance of yours?”

A small voice in the back of your head told you not to mess around with a demon like Crowley. The guy was as conniving as he was good-looking, and that wouldn’t bode very well for you if he was planning on double-crossing you while you were intoxicated. In addition, your emotions were still a fucking mess, teetering between melancholic and agitated. Getting drunk would hardly do them any favors tonight. Waking up with a banging hangover and whatever else Crowley secretly had planned for you would only make things worse. In short, all the consequences were practically screaming at you to bolt out of there, grab the shotgun full of salt, and wipe that damn handsome smirk off his face.

Unfortunately for you, that small voice in your head was overpowered by a larger one, which seemed to utter two simple words you were only so eager to go with.

_Fuck it._

* * *

“So I open the door, ready to scream Dean’s ear off for missing several of Sam’s calls, and suddenly, I’m just _standing_ there, barely putting it together because I just happened to catch him mid-stroke while he was jerking off to anime porn.”

You were already at your wit’s end as you narrated this to Crowley, but his disgusted expression at your story must have triggered something else because your drunken laughter had suddenly hit a hysterical edge. Grabbing his sleeve, you rested your brow against his shoulder and tried to catch your breath, your intoxicated mind swimming in the scent of his cologne.

“Well,” the demon said, patting your back with a disgruntled sigh, “that’s one piece of information about Squirrel I didn’t need to hear from you.”

“Shut up. It’s hilarious.” You sat upright on your bar stool again, downing the rest of your drink in a single, daring gulp before the empty glass joined about seven more on the counter. “This date was your idea, so you’ll have to put up with my Winchester rants for a while longer.”

Quickly regretting using the term _date_ for this rendezvous with Crowley, you felt the cheeky grin on your face slip away as he seemed to perk up at that last comment. Again, you couldn’t exactly tell why you’d suddenly felt so hot under the collar. If you did, you hoped he wouldn’t, too.

He leaned closer, ever the charming bastard, even while you refused to look at him. “I have to say, I’m flattered you’d think this to be a date. The thought honestly never crossed my mind.” His last sentence sounded like a mock-innocent lie, and you both knew it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Your words, pet.” Crowley shrugged. “Not mine.”

You watched, licking your suddenly-dry lips, as Crowley’s fingers twirled the glass tumbler on the bar with casual ease. Briefly, the thought of those fingers touching _you_ crossed your mind, and suddenly, you couldn’t stop entertaining the idea of him pressing his hand against your inner thigh, stroking you through the thick fabric of your jeans, rubbing higher and higher…

What slipped out as a light moan from your lips was quickly disguised as you cleared your throat and shifted in your seat. However, your nervousness was replaced with horror as you realized how wet you felt between your legs.

Shit. The guy hadn’t even done _anything_ and you were already turned on by him.

Crowley’s gaze was still on you when you ran a hand down your blushing face in half-delirium and half-frustration.

“I seem to recall you mentioning something about holding your liquor,” he teased.

“Shut up. I’m fine,” you quickly lied. “It’s the heat.”

What was it about this demon that violently shook you out of place? His cool expression alone was enough to send chills down your spine, fire down to your curled toes. His lion purr of a voice was like something straight out of a wet dream. Keeping still while sitting next to him was hardly an option at that point, not when his thigh was pressed right against yours.

God, it all felt _fantastic_.

Fantastic and utterly…ridiculous.

Although you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed Crowley’s company, this moment with him didn’t sit right with you. The sober, sensible side of you would’ve lectured your ear off about leaving that bar in a heartbeat and telling Sam and Dean the mission was done. Hunts aside, you also knew you were still in mourning, and this was in no way a decent thing to do right after a close friend’s death.

It was when nausea began to overtake the pleasant buzz in your brain that you realized you needed to get back to Kansas right away.

“I have to go,” you said. _This was a bad idea from start to finish_.

The hint of amusement on Crowley’s expression faded as soon as you’d said it, giving way to slight confusion.

“And keep your socks on,” you added tiredly. “I can still drive.” You tried and failed to get yourself off that stool, groaning as another dizzy spell hit you hard.

“I could easily take you back to that hovel they call a bunker,” he offered. Was it just you, or did he sound a little cross?

“No, just…” Barely able to come up with an excuse, you simply closed your eyes and rubbed your temple in small circles. For now, you just wanted him gone before things got out of hand. It was too much, seeing him, _aching_ for him, pushing him away, repeating the whole damn cycle over and over. You didn’t deserve that, and he certainly didn’t, either.

The loss you felt as Crowley sighed and got up from his seat hit you harder than you thought, and you struggled not to look back, to keep your eyes on the empty glasses before you.

_Goddamnit._

But you were hardly able to come up with a mental note about putting a hold to your bar-hopping ways for a while…when the demon was suddenly behind you, bracing himself against the bar with one arm as he leaned in closer and addressed you in a low, dangerous voice.

“You think you can get rid of me so easily?” he seethed right into your ear. “You think I arranged this whole meeting with you just so we could have a couple of drinks and nothing more?”

Your fists were clenched so hard, you could feel your fingernails dig deep into the flesh of your palms. It wasn’t out of anger but out of a flimsy effort to hold everything together as Crowley whispered to you in that harsh baritone of his. In no time, you were aching for him all over again.

“Crowley…” you begged; what you were begging for, you couldn’t exactly say.

“That’s right,” he teased. “Go ahead and run to Moose and Squirrel, if you’re so keen. I won’t stop you.”

Neither of you appeared to be surprised when you felt as if you couldn’t move an inch from your seat. For Crowley, it was a small triumph. For you, it was utter hell. Either way, did you _really_ want to leave?

“But know this, (y/n).” He leaned closer, the proximity knocking the breath out of you. “Unlike Dean Winchester, I keep better secrets behind _locked_ doors.” A low chuckle. “And wouldn’t you like to know what they are…”

That last statement sounded more like a certainty than an assumption. And that was when you realized: he _knew_. The bastard knew what he was doing to you, and he was enjoying every moment of it.

“What do you want?” you relented. Though you couldn’t see it, you could tell that Crowley was grinning at your helplessness.

“That all lies with you, darling. I’m merely offering an invitation.”

Deep down, you already knew the answer to that question. Now, it was just a matter of how long it would take before you could muster the ability to speak.

To his surprise as well as yours, it wasn’t a stretch.

You nodded, your heart already racing as the prospect of being alone with him.

“Okay.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-S9]
> 
> Grieving the death of your friend Kevin Tran, you get back on the hunting grind and encounter none other than the King of Hell himself in Missouri. After knocking back a few drinks, you both head to his domain and contemplate doing unspeakable things to each other behind locked doors.

You had to take a good look at it to make sure Crowley wasn’t kidding. But you couldn’t help but blink. Twice.

It was just… _huge_.

He gave you a proud grin. “Well?”

“Erm…” You gulped. “It’s a lot bigger than I expected.” Needless to say, the sight of it was more than enough to sober you up after a night of hard drinking at the bar.

“Hm. I’d gotten the same feedback many times before.”

Letting out a nervous giggle, you stepped closer to get a better look at it. “How do you keep it so clean, though? And is that…leather?”

Crowley shrugged, masking his pride at your amazement with ease. “A good king deserves a good throne.”

The throne before you and Crowley was better than just _good_. It was a ridiculously grand old thing, the ceiling-to-floor type that rested upon an elevated marble platform. Despite the size, it actually looked comfortable, and in a moment of childish glee, you pictured yourself seated upon that throne, sinking into its black leather lining until you deduced it undesirable to get up once you’ve gotten a seat on it.

But when you pictured Crowley on his throne, your thoughts were less cartoonish and more serious. If this was where he conducted most of his business, the spot was no less deserving to him than it was for any king on his throne. In your mind, the look suited him really well; it was as if this grand-looking chair was tailor-made for him.

Soon enough, your imagination got ahead of you, and you wondered how it would look like, _feel_ like, if he was sitting on that throne right now, telling you whatever he wanted you to do…

You were contemplating a little bondage, _just_ a little, when his voice cut through your reverie and made you blush in spite of yourself.

“Shall we go on with the tour?”

Right. A tour. That’s what you were both doing.

“Yeah.” You reluctantly tore your gaze from the throne. “After you.”

* * *

The tour around Hell was one of the most interesting (if not peculiar) pre-one-night-stand activities you’d ever experienced. Strangely enough, it was all your idea, not Crowley’s. By the time you had both made it to his place and he was advancing towards you in that sexy, predatory way, you practically yelled out “heywaitwhydon’twetakeatouraroundHellfirst” before stopping yourself and chastising your own nerves. Still, you couldn’t withdraw the offer after he’d so willingly taken it. And you knew he was doing this because his pride needed to be stroked…among other things.

After a quick visit to the throne room, his office, and his den (where an invisible Hellhound had tackled you to the floor and nearly made you wet your own pants), the tour slowed down significantly, and you found yourself walking casually down a long hallway with the King of Hell. The stroll came to you both so easily, it was almost as if you’d forgotten all about Crowley’s proposition back at the bar.

Your eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. “Soul music? Really?” you said, referring to the song blaring from the PA system in the hallway.

Crowley maintained his slow pace without looking at you. “What were you expecting, love? Mozart?”

“No,” you replied, wanting to humor him a little longer. “I was thinking more along the lines of Norwegian death metal.”

He chuckled at the suggestion. “That would be something my _subjects_ would listen to, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. The fact that he even _had_ subjects was astounding in its own right. You looked around the hallway for any sign of them. “Speaking of which, where are they, anyway? This part of Hell seems pretty quiet.”

“I’ve sent them all away on a small errand. Just to smooth out the kinks that’ve come with a particular civil war.” Crowley offered you a side-glance and a grin. “It’s just you and me tonight.”

From the way he’d said it, the idea of you being alone with Crowley made you tremble with shameless eagerness. So he hadn’t forgotten what this visit was all about. It now begged the question of where he was leading you and when he would fulfill his promise of showing you “better secrets behind locked doors.”

As if he’d immediately sensed your curiosity as to where this was about to go, he led you into a dark room, too dark for you to take a little more than a couple of steps inside. You felt his hand on your back again, politely ushering you further in like he had done back at the bar. If he was still playing the part of the gentleman, it was doing wonders to your lingering infatuation towards him.

Just as soon as the butterflies in your stomach began to take flight, however, you felt your belly grow heavy with anticipation the moment Crowley switched on the lights.

Your attention was immediately drawn to the four-poster king-size bed at one end of the bedroom, everything else a blurry haze of classic furnishings in the backdrop of your vision. Although you knew this room was all just for show, it appeared convincing enough for you to never want to leave it. Before you could help it, your mind was going crazy thinking up the most depraved sex acts you could perform with him on that bed as well as in other areas of the room.

And as if your mind wasn’t already in hyperdrive, you heard Crowley snap his fingers behind you, followed by the sound of a very distinct click.

He had locked the door.

When you turned to look at him, he was already taking off his coat, throwing it over the back of a nearby couch.

“Clothes off, (y/n),” he ordered, not moving a muscle. “Now.”

You couldn’t tell whether it was the lingering effects of the alcohol or the sound of his deep, commanding voice that made you so eager to obey, but you were already stripping off your clothes before Crowley could get another word in, not that he needed to. Everything came off—shirt, jeans, shoes, even your hunting knife—and he just stood there, watching you with a satisfied grin on his face. He held up a hand to stop you just when you were about to get started on removing your underwear, and from the way he advanced towards you, slowly, patiently, you figured he wanted to do the rest of the job himself.

Merely a foot away from you now, Crowley took a quick glance at your chest, which rose and fell at a surprisingly steady pace, before his hand grazed your rib cage and reached for your bra clasp, deftly undoing it in a single try. You slipped off the straps yourself and dropped the bra onto the carpeted floor, meeting his eyes again.

Not once did Crowley’s look of concentration break in the slightest. Not even when he stepped even closer and hooked his thumbs into the band of your underwear. Not even when he crouched down and slowly pulled the entire thing down your legs until it went past your ankles. His eyes were on you the entire time, never looking away, even when he stood up and took a step back from you to drink the whole sight in.

All of this, and he was still fully, immaculately dressed while you stood in the middle of the room naked. The slow pace of this whole ordeal pushed you to the edge, but you waited to see what he would do next.

After observing you from head to toe, Crowley put his hands in his pockets and grinned anew.

“Very nice.”

Suddenly, you were swept off your feet by an invisible force, landing on the soft bed with a gasp.

He was chuckling—the bastard was _chuckling_ —as he had you pinned down on that bed with the sheer force of his mind alone. Helpless and unable to move, you watched him approach the edge of the bed, so casually that it was almost unnerving, and cock his head in satisfaction. Like he was enjoying the view.

“Crowley, goddamnit…” you pleaded, his insistent inaction turning you on more than you could ever expect. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Actually,” he began, “I would much rather enjoy the show from a respectable distance.”

You shot him a glare, suspicion cutting through the haze of arousal clouding your mind.

“What—”

Before you could even get a sentence out, you were harshly interrupted by a strong, unseen pressure growing between your legs. You let out a strangled moan, reaching down in an effort to still the invisible force kneading your bare crotch, but it was no use. Your fingers were uselessly clawing at something virtually nonexistent. But it was there. You could feel every stroke, every swipe of it, like imagined fingers teasing your sensitive skin.

As you panted and writhed on that bed, you heard Crowley’s fingers snap again. There was a dull thud, masked by the carpet, and when you looked up, you saw that he had moved the couch closer to the bed, sitting down and watching you suffer under his ministrations with a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Call it a small act of vengeance, if you will,” he said over the sound of your moaning, “for everything you and those lumberjacks had put me under, back in that cramped storeroom you lot call a dungeon.”

Crowley took a sip of his drink and, with a snap of his fingers, forced your legs wider, the sudden stretch surprising you just as much as the overall exposure aroused you.

While the demon watched and enjoyed himself, you felt the pressure on your crotch weaken, slowly so that you were able to catch your breath, until it was completely gone. The sudden loss relieved and frustrated you at the same time, but before you could reach down and touch yourself, pick up from where he had so abruptly left off, both your wrists were thrown back again the bed, trapped in a sturdy, telekinetic hold over your head.

Crowley stood up and clicked his tongue disapprovingly at your eagerness, approaching you until he was practically right in front of you, until your trembling legs were within his reach. You were soaking wet, and he knew it, but somehow, it didn’t seem like enough for him. You could see it in his eyes, that devious _want_ to push you to your limits, and it frightened you. But more than that, it _thrilled_ you.

“Not one for patience, are we, (y/n)?” His hand was on your knee, one thumb stroking the hot skin of your inner thigh, while his glass of scotch was held between your legs. You gasped in surprise as you felt the glass’s condensation come into contact with your pussy, icy drops falling directly to your clit.

“Fuck,” you whined. “ _Fuck_ …”

"That’s the plan,” Crowley said. “But not just yet.”

Another snap, and the glass disappeared. He was looking at you again, not at your crotch but your face, and it pissed you off that he appeared so pleased by your flustered expression. It was classic Crowley, teasing you, prolonging the inevitable until it bent towards his favor rather than yours. And from both your positions alone, it was clear who was in control, whose hand continued to pet your inner knee in slow circles.

“What do you want?” you relented, knowing this was going nowhere until you gave him something in particular.

Crowley grinned, glad that, to some extent, you were finally seeing eye to eye. “Well, for starters,” he replied, “you can drop the Winchesters and swear your allegiance to me.”

The speed at which your thoughts descended from an arousing high to _W_ _ait, what?_ was no short of dizzying. No longer physically held down by Crowley’s mind, you lifted yourself on your elbows and stared at him, waiting for him to deliver the punchline. It didn’t come. He wasn’t kidding.

“Excuse me?” you said, puzzled and a little insulted. Was all of this really just a ruse to get you to betray Sam and Dean?

It was Crowley’s turn to look insulted. “Must I repeat myself?” He was drumming his fingers against your knee. “Cut off all ties with Moose and Squirrel. Simple.”

“The fuck makes you think I’d want to do that?” you seethed, your fingers itching for your blade before you realized it was far from your reach. You heard him snap his fingers again before feeling that familiar pressure between your legs, making your whole body arch back as you let out a long moan.

“Darling, in your position, you’re hardly one to contest me on this matter,” Crowley said simply. He took a step back before pacing the perimeter of the bed with his hands behind his back, leaving you to writhe on it in a disorienting mix of arousal and frustration. “Of course, this is, in no way, a kidnapping. After I’m done with you, I’ll be sending you back to Missouri without a scratch.” A deep chuckle. “Unless you’re rather into that kind of thing.”

“Then what the hell _is_ this, Crowley?” you asked, begging for him to clarify. In your book, this no longer counted as a typical date. If it did, you wouldn’t be the only one in that room without any clothes on.

The pressure was lifted from you again, and you struggled to catch your breath, turning your head to look at Crowley as he calmly watched you from one side of the bed.

"There’s no need for you to raise your voice, (y/n),” he said. “I’m merely offering you a way out. Saving you from a world of trouble with those masochistic hunters you call your friends.”

“You’re bluffing,” you said defensively. Sam and Dean had been nothing but kind to you, if not a little strict, ever since you’d moved into the bunker with them. Still, you knew it would take more than a few choice words from the King of Hell to sway you completely.

“Am I?” he countered. You felt the bed sink under Crowley’s weight as he sat down next to you and went on. “Have you ever wondered why the Winchesters are constantly short on allies apart from yourself? Or why the hunting community is everything _but_ eager to help them on a case or two?”

The accuracy of Crowley’s questions scared you a little, and you had to take a moment to look away, to wonder what exactly he was trying to tell you. In spite of this, the demon leaned in closer, eager to strengthen your doubts.

"It’s because they’re volatile.” His voice, low and dangerous, was right at your ear. “Those boys are bad luck. You’d sooner die under their protection than out in the open, and given the world’s current situation with this fallen angel nonsense, that’s saying something.”

Your fingers clenched the sheets beneath you. It was strange that you couldn’t tell where this sudden anger was coming from: Crowley’s lies or the growing suspicion that he might be right.

"Come now, love,” he crooned. “The last thing we both need is another Kevin Tran.”

That went far enough. You sat up on that bed, staring down the King of Hell with newfound determination. “You don’t get to talk about him like he’s just some casualty,” you warned. “He was my _friend_. And all you did was make his life a living hell.”

Crowley’s hand shot up to grab your throat, cutting off your bitter address. He squeezed hard, not enough to actually hurt you but enough to send you a message that he wasn’t fucking around. His expression was well-balanced between self-control and ferocity, and you knew you had somehow crossed a certain line, just as he had done with you. Still, though you were testing dangerous waters with him, your glare remained.

“I tried to warn him this would happen, the same way I’m warning you now,” Crowley told you, his tone dead serious. “You think toying with innocent prophets is the only thing I’m after? I’ve known the Winchesters longer than you have, and I know exactly what they’re capable of. They’re only using you, and after you’ve served your purpose, they’ll throw you away at a moment’s convenience.”

The hand that gripped your throat now gingerly held your chin and tipped your head back, making it impossible for you to look away from Crowley.

“Let’s face it, (y/n). You’re nothing more than a necessity to them. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

It was painfully ironic, the picture he was trying to paint in your mind. While Crowley was sabotaging an already-fractured impression of Sam and Dean you kept deep inside you, he was making himself out as the savior, coming to your rescue. And what hurt you the most wasn’t the fact that he thought you could so easily sway in his grasp or fall hard for his manipulative mind games before he could even blink. It was the fact that, as much as you wanted to deny it, in certain respects…he was _right._

Come fire and brimstone, Sam and Dean were still your family. But regardless of all the filial bonds you had formed with them, it didn’t stop the fact that you were practically a walking target for all those monsters, demons and angels on the loose. If anything, like Crowley had said, you seem to have placed yourself in a far more precarious situation just by being acquainted with them, and deep down, you knew it would bode ill for both the Winchesters and yourself.

Your loyalties privately leaned away from them and towards Crowley, who still waited for your response. And like any demonic deal, the offer was incredibly tempting.

But all of this aside, you were still a hunter at heart. You refused to go down this road, inevitable or otherwise as the descent was, without a fight.

“No,” you told him, resolute. “I’m not doing it. You can’t expect me to drop everything and run. That isn’t what I do.”

Why you felt the need to explain yourself to the King of Hell, you didn’t know, and he didn’t, either, looking slightly puzzled in his consternation. Nonetheless, you went on.

“I’m not like any of your pets or your subjects.” You held his wrist and pulled his hand from your face. “I know you think you’re looking out for me, and frankly, I’m not sure whom I can really trust on this. But if you think I’ll break easy, you’re wrong. _I_ get to decide what happens to me. Not Dean or Sam, and especially not you.”

You waited for a moment, your heart racing when Crowley’s jaw was set at your stubbornness. It looked like the demon was hardly used to mortals refusing his offers. But you could see in his eyes that he was amused by your response. Amazed, even. To your relief, it was this amusement that kept him from prodding the issue further.

But as the gravity of this would-be proposition was being lifted from your shoulders, you grew more and more aware of what was happening at that moment. In this bedroom, with him standing authoritatively over your naked form, your personal convictions didn’t apply. Only _his_ rules mattered, and he hadn’t forgotten that.

As far as you both knew, the door was still locked.

You leaned back, half-nervous and half-excited, waiting for him to surprise you.

"Fine. If you insist,” he muttered, eerily calm. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t break you in _other_ ways.”

He snapped his fingers, and you were forcibly flipped onto your stomach, body strung tight and straight on top of that bed. Crowley made it a point to make sure you were looking away from him, with your cheek pressed against the satin sheets.

It made the sound of a belt unbuckling louder to your ears.

Your eyes widened and your hands clenched those sheets; you tried to keep still, but the struggle to keep your breathing calm and even was a strong one.

When his hand tenderly stroked your bare ass, you had to bite your lip hard to still the moan growing in the back of your throat. He was testing you again, making sure to avoid that aching spot between your legs, until it was clear to you that he wouldn’t let you off easy on this.

As soon as his hand was gone, you bitterly mourned its loss, but when you felt something else touch your flesh, something that felt like smooth leather, you had to brace yourself again.

"As you well know,” he said, his voice rumbling above you like an approaching thunderstorm, “I’m used to getting the things I want.”

You heard a resounding clap of leather against skin, immediately feeling a sharp sting on your ass that made your mouth fall open in agony and _want_.

“So, although I admire your spark, pet,” he went on, “our little spat begs the need for me to put you in your place.”

Another slap of his belt on your cheek. Another desperate try at keeping quiet and still.

“Crowley—”

The next one was stronger, making you gasp out loud in surprise and recoil from the contact with a soft moan. You weren’t exactly being held down on that bed by his powers, unlike moments before. But you didn’t feel eager to leave, either.

“You’re begging for this, aren’t you?” he mused, telling you what you already knew. “And what makes you think I’ll give you what you want without holding back?”

That was _exactly_ what you wanted. And he was teasing you with the very idea of it.

_Asshole._

His hand was on you again, not to strike but to grasp at your hip and flip you onto your back. Boneless, you allowed him to hold you steady, to pet your thighs before kneeling onto the carpet and positioning himself between your legs.

When Crowley saw that your toes were curled tightly in anticipation, he grinned and coaxed you to relax with a couple of light thumb strokes on your hipbones. You trembled, knowing full well that he was hiding something in his sleeve that he had yet to use on you. In spite of that, you willed your body into a forced sense of ease, excited as you felt by his hold on you.

Suddenly, he was holding your hand, placing it between your legs without meeting any resistance from you.

“Spread yourself open for me, darling.”

Eagerly, you put your fingers to work and exposed yourself to him, a chill rushing down your spine when you saw that Crowley was thoroughly enjoying the view. His pleased grin, as well as the sensation of his hot breath against you, pushed you to your very limits. He loved every moment of your torment, coaxing it in and out of you like a dizzying lullaby that just wouldn’t go away.

“There’s a good girl.”

The moment his mouth came into contact with your clit, you had to force yourself to look away for fear of losing control.

He was being careful with you, knowing precisely which spot to suck, when it was the right time to draw tight circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, when to soothe your slit in long, wide licks before turning his attention back to that sensitive nub of flesh. All the while, you were moaning his name, moaning whatever curse immediately came to mind.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your voice modulating a few pitches higher when he worried his tongue against a particular spot. “Oh, _God_ …”

"Not quite.” He muttered the response directly into your slit. “But close.”

He then resumed with a newfound tenacity that had you raising your hips from the bed in an effort to gain more friction with his tongue. His short beard scratched at your inner thighs. His thumb fiddled with your clit as he tongue-fucked you in shallow thrusts. The more he kept at it, the more you wanted to pull him closer until the job was done. And you could feel it creeping close, that very release, waiting by the edges to surprise you.

“ _Crowley_ …”

And then his mouth was gone, leaving you viciously empty.

You groaned against the crook of your arm, so frustrated by the loss of his touch, you could almost cry.

As Crowley stood up, he took you by the hand and pulled you up with him so suddenly, you had almost ungracefully crashed against his chest. But despite your wobbly stance, his tight hold around your waist was secure enough for him to bury his face into the crook of your neck without a hitch.

You both hummed in satisfaction as he bruised the skin of your neck with his lips and teeth, as he nibbled at your collarbone and palmed your breast. Blissfully high from the way he touched and tasted you, you absentmindedly pressed your lips against his temple and reached down to touch him through the seam of his trousers. The groan he released vibrated against your throat and went straight to your groin.

He spun you around until your back was pressed to his chest and kept you in place with an arm around your frame. Feeling his erection against your ass, you had half a mind to grind against him, but his hold on you was so tight, you could barely move. As one of his hands squeezed your breast and tweaked your nipple to hardness, his other hand made a beeline for your pussy. The moment he trapped your clit between his fingers, your head easily fell back against his shoulder.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we, (y/n)?” he teased, his deep voice causing you to tremble.

What might have been a snarky reply from you quickly morphed into a soft, high-pitched moan when he slipped a finger past your wet opening and stroked your inner walls. In a few seconds, you found yourself not caring how many fingers he’d shoved into you or how fast he was thrusting them in and pulling them out of you. The overwhelming sensation washing over you as he rubbed your clit with the heel of his hand, as he panted in your ear and trapped your earlobe between his teeth, was but a low, pleasing buzz in the back of your mind. What mattered to you was that you needed to come right away. Right _now_.

“Crowley, just— _fuck!_ ” you cried out as his fingers found and stroked a highly sensitive spot. “Just fuck me already!”

His laugh was low and mocking. “Always in a rush,” he remarked.

The next thing you knew, you were on your hands and knees, barely able to support your exhausted body on that bed. But Crowley was able to catch you in time, grasp your hips so that your ass was in line with his hard cock. How he’d managed to get his pants off in record time was beyond you.

While he had teased you for ages only moments ago, he wasted no time slipping himself into you, using one hand to steady his cock while the other squeezed your hip, hard enough to leave nail-bites on your skin. He was so deep inside you and so unexpectedly _large_ that you couldn’t hold back from pressing your cheek to the sheets and tightening your walls around him. That seemed to have caught him by surprise because he let out a loud groan and sternly slapped your ass with vigor, causing you to perk up and gasp.

“Do that again,” he threatened, “and I’ll make sure to keep this painfully slow.”

You were about to mumble an apology when you felt his slick cock carefully pull out of you and, just as suddenly, ram back into you again.

“Jesus!” you cried out, earning you a slap on your thigh.

“Wrong again.” Above you, his voice sounded low and grave, your favorite variation. “Pay attention.”

It was incredibly difficult for you to give him even an inkling of your attention when he was repeating the same process again, pulling in and out of you, keeping his pace steady. While both his hands were on your hips, your hands, in turn, clenched at the sheets beneath you, mimicking the harsh squeezing and relaxing of his fingers with every thrust.

It was when he picked up his speed that you gave up on keeping quiet, and before you could stop it, you were yelling for him again, pleading for a quick release even though he’d been keeping this going for an absurd amount of time.

Desperate, you reached down to touch yourself, but before your fingertips could even graze your folds, you felt Crowley make a fist in your hair and yank you back to him, eager to undo you himself. His hand disappeared between your legs as he made rough circles against your clit with his fingers.

Everything he did overwhelmed you, edging you dangerously close to your breaking point. His hand between your folds. His other hand pinching your nipple. His teeth marking your shoulder. His cock balls-deep inside of you. It was all too much.

You came with a broken cry, the hint of tears stinging your eyes. Amidst the white-hot burn of your orgasm and the explosion you _felt_ , rather than saw, beneath your eyelids, everything else—the bunker, the bar, the shifter in Missouri, Sam, Dean, even Kevin—seemed a fast blur. Too fleeting to be remembered. Too insignificant to matter in the slightest.

* * *

“Mmm…”

You woke up on that same bed, relaxed but aching, parched, and very much still naked under the covers. The only difference was that someone had taken the time to rest your head upon a lush pillow.

Hardly a second passed before your sluggish mind recalled every single moment that had led to this mishap: the drinking, the flirting, the tour around Hell, Crowley fucking the living daylights out of you. It was amazing how so much had happened in the span of a single night, maybe less. And as if you didn’t already feel more embarrassed at the idea of your passing out in the height of sex, you also noticed that you had been drooling in your sleep.

You heard a cell phone ring near you. It didn’t sound like yours.

Suddenly, the ringing ceased as someone answered the phone, and you’d recognize that smug tone of voice anywhere.

“Moose,” Crowley greeted.

You felt the bed sink under his weight as he sat near your curled body and listened to Sam chat away at his ear. You couldn’t tell if he knew that you were awake, but you kept still beside him, not wanting to move from your relaxed position just yet—or ever.

“She’s with me,” he said. “The whole shifter case left her exhausted and wounded, so I had to tend to her before matters got worse.”

The conversation took a while longer than you’d expected, and Crowley’s deep voice was more than enough to lull you to sleep once more. What lasted for just a couple minutes felt like hours, so when you felt his fingers brush your cheek, you jerked awake at the contact.

“Shhh,” he soothed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. From the King of Hell, this was a surprisingly tender gesture.

“What time is it?” you mumbled.

“Almost noon,” he replied. “I did the liberty of telling Moose and Squirrel your whereabouts.”

You gave him a sleepy but puzzled squint. “You told them I was in Hell?”

Crowley pursed his lips in amusement. “Well, that part, I might have tweaked a little.”

Letting out a soft giggle, you closed your eyes and reveled in the warmth of his hand against your face.

Before you could relax again, his fingers found your chin and delicately tilted your head upwards to meet his expression.

As you craned your neck and met his serious gaze for a few seconds, something stirred in your chest, something that teetered between anxiety and loss. You didn’t want to know what it was exactly, but it left an alien sense of longing within you that either wanted you to pull Crowley closer, meld your body with his again, or push him away and forget that last night ever happened.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, fingertips dancing across your jawline. “My offer still stands.”

“I know,” you acknowledged.

“The moment you walk out that door, you’ll be back in that parking lot.” He was petting your hair now. “But whether you take that drive back to Kansas or not, in your words, _you_ decide.”

You nodded without thinking, wanting your mind to be miles away from the topic of this conversation. But you knew it was hardly a topic to avoid at all. Without a doubt, your loyalties _were_ being tested, and although you had no idea where to start in terms of resolving this problem, you had to make a decision fast.

A hazardous lifetime with your family…or insurance in the hands of their biggest enemy?

"Think about it, (y/n). And think hard. My propositions are seldom permanent.”

Those were Crowley’s parting words before he stood up and patiently exited his bedroom without hesitation, leaving you to stew in your thoughts.

This time, he had left the door unlocked.

Very briefly, you wondered if it would stay that way for long.

**Author's Note:**

> I had written this fic for a friend back in 2014, and only recently did I contemplate giving this story (and many others in the future) a new home in AO3 from my old dust-and-cobweb-covered Tumblr account.
> 
> Cecilie, wherever you are, I hope you're doing well.


End file.
